


When All Else Fails

by ClueingForLooks_221B



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arguing, Best Friends, Complete, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentioned Mary Morstan, POV John Watson, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 04, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:14:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25341502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClueingForLooks_221B/pseuds/ClueingForLooks_221B
Summary: “Sherlock?”“Hmmm?” he tore his eyes from his laptop screen to look up at his friend. Seeing him standing there holding a bottle of wine, he shook his head. “No, thank you, I’m good.”John laughed. “Well, I already poured you some, but no. I was going to ask, why don’t you ever correct anyone when they assume you and I are together?”“We are together,” he replied simply, still typing away at his laptop.John stiffened a bit at that. “What?”“You and me. We’re together a lot, John. Why would I correct someone who points out a fact?”John rolled his eyes as he headed back toward the kitchen. “That’s not what I meant,” he called as he put the wine back on the counter.When he turned around, Sherlock was standing in the doorway between the two rooms.“What did you mean?”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 355





	When All Else Fails

**Author's Note:**

> I recently rewatched the Sherlock series and man, what a ride. I disliked a lot of what happened in season 4 (mostly John's treatment of Sherlock following Mary's death) but I must say, the show ended almost perfectly for those of us who ship Johnlock. The very last lines of the show are spoken by Mary, and I believe they set up our boys perfectly. 
> 
> Mary's voiceover is as follows:
> 
> P.S. I know you two, and if I'm gone, I know what you could become, because I know who you really are - a junkie who solves crimes to get high, and the doctor who never came home from the war. Will you listen to me? Who you really are, it doesn't matter. It's all about the legend, the stories, the adventures. There is a last refuge for the desperate, the unloved, the persecuted. There is a final court of appeal for everyone. When life gets too strange, too impossible, too frightening, there is always one last hope. When all else fails, there are two men sitting, arguing in a scruffy flat, like they've always been there and they always will. The best and wisest men I have ever known, my Baker Street boys, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.
> 
> I decided to write this little story mostly for myself. I wanted to give our boys some of the happiness and comfort that was very much lacking for them in that last season. I hope you enjoy!

Life at 221B Baker Street had pretty much returned to what it once was. John had moved back in with his friend, Sherlock, a few months after the dramatic events with Eurus at Sherrinford. It was hard for him to be alone in the house he once shared with Mary, he practically spent most of his time with Sherlock anyway. So much had happened in the past year, most of it dreadful, so it was nice to return to some normalcy. Being back at Baker Street was like coming home, and John couldn’t thank Sherlock enough for being open to it. Not only open to it, but positively insistent.

There was one major difference, of course, between the life they used to know in their flat versus the one they have now. The consulting detective and doctor were now also looking after a small baby girl. John couldn't believe that his friend was amenable to it, and what’s more, that Sherlock had taken such a liking to this small bundle of emotions and sounds and smells. John would never choose to describe his daughter in such a way, but that’s how he imagined Sherlock's mind would view this tiny creature. While part of that may be true, as he’s certainly seen his friend give Rosie more than a few perplexed looks over the last couple months, the detective also seems positively enraptured with her. He finds the way her brain is developing and the things he can teach her to be captivating. 

Currently, Sherlock Holmes was doing just that. He was playing a memory game with Rosie on the floor by the fireplace while John tidied up in the kitchen after dinner. Thankfully, Sherlock was also amenable to baby proofing the flat in a lot of ways. John chuckled to himself as he looked at the small fridge Sherlock had bought specifically for science projects and, ahem, body parts, so that the main fridge that contained their food would no longer be tainted.

“She’s five months old, you know. She doesn’t even understand words yet and you think she can memorize pictures on cards?” John called from the kitchen, a smile on his face.

“It’s been shown that babies can start forming memories at six months, and I’ve no doubt our little Rosie will be well ahead of the curve.”

John peeked around the corner to see his friend bop Rosie on the nose with a smile.

“It’s okay, your Daddy doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Sherlock whispered.

“Hey!” John laughed. “Don’t you start telling her stuff like that. She’ll have all the time in the world to figure that out for herself.”

John went back to finish drying dishes and shook his head while chuckling. Things have become quite... domestic here on Baker Street. ‘In more ways than one’, he thought as he felt himself blush slightly.

The doctor had been living back with Sherlock for about a month now, but there were a few times he and Rosie slept over before the move was final. It was just so hard, feeling so devastatingly alone. Nights were the hardest because everything was so quiet. There was nothing to distract him from the loneliness and the grief that he felt. He barely slept and would often move to the couch so he didn’t have to stare at the empty side of the bed that once held his wife. For this reason, the first time he slept over, he had hoped that just being in a different bed would help. It did, slightly, but what sleep that did come to him was rife with nightmares. Nightmares of holding Mary as she died and the guilt of talking to another woman behind her back. That alone was enough to plague the dreams of any normal person. But then he also had the horrific memories of all that occurred with Eurus to contend with. The fear of drowning in a well, the messed up mind games of having your best friend choosing if you die or not.

His best friend, Sherlock. They had been through more together than any two humans should ever have to endure.

That thought reminded him of the second time John and Rosie had slept over, and the doctor had been a mess. He finally got his daughter to fall asleep in her crib after over an hour of dealing with a very unusually fussy child. He had just enough energy to change into his pajamas, a tee shirt and drawstring pants, before he collapsed onto the edge of his bed. He put his head in his hands in exhaustion, and the next thing he knew, he was crying. He had been in that state for no more than a couple minutes when he heard a soft knock on the door. Before he could answer, the curly head of his best friend poked in and was looking at him. Sherlock was clad in his silk shirt and pants, his dressing gown making a swishing noise as he stepped into the room.

“John?” he called softly. “Oh, John,” he sadly whispered as he closed the gap between them. “Come on, come with me. Let’s not wake Rosie.” Sherlock lightly grasped his friend’s elbow and led him out of the room and into the detective’s bedroom.

John was trying to gather himself as Sherlock turned on the lamp beside his bed, coating the room in a comforting warm glow. The detective made his way back to his friend and sat next to him on the edge of the bed. Sherlock sat close, their thighs touching, and put his hand on John’s back in comfort. He was smart enough to not bother asking what was wrong. The answer could be any number of hellish things that had happened to them, or all of those things at once. Sometimes it all piled up like that. But not tonight. This time John’s tears were born from guilt.

The doctor felt his friend rubbing small circles on his back, the heat and pressure of his hand being an immense comfort. Having him this close made him feel grounded. He couldn’t help but think of how far they’d come together. John was sure the Sherlock he’d met years ago would not have known how to comfort someone in such a way. If he had, would the John of several years ago have allowed it?

The doctor finally looked up and met his friend’s searching gaze. The concern in those grey eyes of his was evident.

“I’m sorry,” John began, his voice rough.

Sherlock raised his hand to wave him off but John grabbed his hand to silence him.

“Not for this, Sherlock. I mean, I don’t feel great about blubbering all over you, but no. I’m so, SO sorry for the way I treated you after Mary died.”

Sherlock stiffened a bit at that, and John now held his friend’s hand between both of his own as he gave him a look that he hoped conveyed how truly sincere he was being.

“John, you already apologized for that. It’s forgiven. I more than deserved-”

“No.” John’s lips tightened and he shook his head. “No, that’s why we’re going to talk about this because you did not deserve what I did. Never. I’m still having nightmares, Sherlock. Only now they're not about Mary but how I hurt you. About the way I attacked you in that morgue. About how-” John’s voice wavered, his eyes brimming with tears again. “About how close I came to losing you again, because of my anger and stubbornness.”

A few tears managed to find their way down John’s cheeks. Sherlock continued to study his friend's face, his free hand still rubbing circles on John’s back. The gesture reassured John and he gathered himself, taking a breath before continuing.

“I’ll never forget busting into that room and seeing that, that MONSTER with his hands on you. The terror I felt. That pit in my stomach that I really had just truly lost you again. Sherlock, I’m still haunted by it. Only in my nightmares, I’m too late. I burst in and you’re lying there lifeless.”

John closed his eyes, more tears leaking out and his breath began hitching. He was beginning to feel out of control, and he released his friend’s hand to bring his own up to his face. His therapist had told him that releasing emotions and doing so without guilt was a step forward. But there was still a limit to what his pride would allow his best friend to see.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he apologized again, his voice muffled. “I’m sorry I did that to you and I’m so glad I didn’t lose you. I don’t know what I’d do.”

Sherlock, for his part, did not seem put off by any of this. More than anything he just seemed concerned. Frowning, he wrapped his arm around his friend, coaxing John to lay his head on the detective’s shoulder.

“John, I want you to know that I forgive you. Truly, I do. But we can’t ignore the fact that I was the one who put myself in that position. I schemed to be alone in that room with him. I underestimated him. That was not your fault.”

John sighed. “I know, I get that. I just- I let my misdirected anger cloud my judgement and it almost cost you your life. I want you to know that I’ll never let that happen again.” John looked up to meet his friend's eyes. “I promise.”

The detective gave him a small, sincere smile. “Thank you.”

John smiled back, a warm feeling blooming in his stomach. This was happening more and more lately around the detective and he was doing his best to ignore what it could mean. He chalked it up to finally having some happiness in his life. That was definitely true, but he knew deep down it wasn’t the whole truth. 

John was mesmerized by his friend's eyes, and the heat in his abdomen was starting to spread. Suddenly he felt hot everywhere and could feel a blush rising to his cheeks. Clearing his throat, he broke their lingering gaze and scrubbed his face with his hands. He needed to get out of there before his friend became wise to what was going on in his head.

“Well, I’ve wept all over you enough for one night. Thanks again, I mean it,” he said, giving his friend one more smile before moving toward the door.

“John?” Sherlock called quietly from his place on the bed.

The shorter man turned around, his attention piqued by the unsureness in his friend’s voice. 

“Could you, um. Would you stay?” 

John opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out.

“You’re not the only one who has nightmares,” Sherlock finished with half a smile.

John continued to feel dumb for a moment before coming back to himself. “Yeah, yes. Yes of course,” he replied easily and earnestly.

Sherlock smiled and nodded before climbing into his bed. Once settled, he pulled back the covers on the other side and gestured for his friend to join him.

John crawled under the covers, more than happy to be there. He had secretly been wanting this, not for romantic reasons, at least not a first, but because it had just been so hard sleeping alone. For the first night in a long time he would feel warmth from the other side of the bed, the warmth of his best friend, and that was comforting.

“I’m sorry you’re having nightmares, too,” John said as Sherlock reached over to turn off the light.

Sherlock shrugged as he rolled back over. The two were on their sides, facing each other now, as just enough moonlight pooled into the room so that they could make out each other's faces.

“Oh you know,” the detective began nonchalantly, “a psychopathic sister who murdered my childhood friend caused me such trauma that I blocked all memory of her, then she decided to come back and try to drown my current best friend in a well. Just the usual stuff.”

Sherlock smiled and then so did John. The two then began laughing at something that certainly should not have been funny. But that was the nature of their lives and of their relationship.

Once the laughing had died down, John met his friend's eyes once again.

“In the interest of honesty, I’m glad you asked me to do this. Here’s hoping we both get a good night's sleep for once.”

Sherlock nodded with a small smile.

John reached over and took one of Sherlock’s hands in his own. The detective stiffened in surprise at first, but quickly relaxed and squeezed his friend’s hand.

“Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

John didn't ever remember sleeping as good as he had that night, and that was surprise number one. Surprise number two came in the form of Sherlock completely wrapped around him when he woke up early the next morning. John had thought about warning his friend the night before that he might be the one to end up spooning Sherlock in the middle of the night, as was his half asleep habit when he shared a bed with Mary. Never in a million years did he imagine that the evasive, anti-sentiment, reserved consulting detective would be the one to initiate snuggling.

John couldn't help but smile and enjoy the predicament he was in. The man who was becoming more and more the object of his affection was literally enveloping him. John’s back was flush with Sherlock’s front, providing a very comfortable warmth between them. The detective had one arm under John's pillow and the other draped over his side, his hand resting lightly by the doctor’s chest. To top it off, one of Sherlock’s long legs was sandwiched between both of John’s. The detective was just tall enough that this was achieved comfortably. John could feel his friend’s warm breath on the back of his neck and he started to feel that warm feeling in his stomach again. More comfortable and happy then he had been in a long time, John felt himself starting to drift off again.

Not long later, while he was in that strange stage between being awake and asleep, he felt his friend tighten his hold around him and exhale deeply.

“Hmmmm… John…” Sherlock murmured in his sleep.

John’s eyes widened at both the sensation of his friend's deep voice rumbling against him and hearing his own name leaving the sleep-addled brain of his companion. He began to realize, however, that he was starting to enjoy himself a little too much. If it were up to him he would gladly stay in that position all day, but at the moment Sherlock had no say and that really wasn’t fair to take advantage of his unknowing sleeping friend in such a way.

“Sherlock?” John called softly and, if he was being honest with himself, very begrudgingly. 

“Mmmph?” the detective replied.

John chuckled to himself. His friend was clearly still asleep.

“Sherlock?” he tried again, squeezing the hand that was on his chest for emphasis. 

All at once he felt and heard his friend take a sharp inhale of breath, his body stiffening behind him. In the few moments of silence that stretched out he could almost hear the wheels of Sherlock’s brain spinning, trying to catch up with the current position he found himself in and how exactly to proceed.

“John I… I um, I didn’t mean,” Sherlock began as he loosened his hold on his friend. 

The doctor could _feel_ his friend’s embarrassment as he tried to slowly pull away.

“Hey, wait,” John began as he turned himself over to face his friend.

Sherlock’s face looked positively stricken as he removed his arm out from under John’s pillow.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know-”

“I mean it, stop it,” John continued, taking Sherlock’s hand between them like he had the night before. 

Sherlock’s eyes widened at the gesture.

John smiled warmly. “Don’t apologize to me. It’s okay, really. I almost warned you last night that I might do the exact same thing to you in my sleep. It’s only natural when you share a bed with someone.”

Sherlock nodded. “Right. I just, I’ve never- I mean, that is to say, I don’t-”

“Does this make me special?” John quipped to lighten the air. “I’ve never seen you at such a loss for words.”

Something flashed in Sherlock’s eyes then. A look of longing that was gone so quickly John thought he imagined it.

“Of course you’re special,” Sherlock smiled, squeezing his friend’s hand. “Haven't you figured that out by now?”

John felt himself blushing a bit at that. He often did when he found himself the object of Sherlock's attention and kind words.

“I mean, my God,” the detective continued, “I only murdered a man for you.”

John gaped at the cocky smirk on his friend’s face.

“I murdered a man for you first!” he replied incredulously, playfully shoving the other man’s shoulder.

Sherlock laughed. “What a pair we make.”

The doctor cleared his throat. “Well I don’t know about you, but that was the best sleep I’ve had in a very long time.”

“I honestly can’t remember a time when I had such consistent, uninterrupted sleep,” he replied seriously.

John swallowed. “Do you, maybe we should- do you want to make this a more regular thing?”

One corner of Sherlock’s lips turned up into a half smile in response.

  
John smiled to himself now, coming back to the reality of currently being in the kitchen. Sherlock was still playing with baby Rosie in the living room, but it was obvious by her whining that she was getting tired.

No sooner had that realization occurred to him before Sherlock walked into the kitchen, cradling a sleepy Rosie in his arms.

“I’m going to take her up,” he said quietly.

John nodded with a smile. “I’ll be there in just a minute.”

He watched his best friend head out of the kitchen with a warmth in his chest. Just about everything Sherlock did these days gave him that feeling, but seeing how good he was with his daughter made him emotional in ways he didn’t fully understand.

John hung up the towel he used to dry the last of the dishes before heading up to his room. The two friends changed his daughter into her pajamas before reading her a story together and tucking her in. She fell asleep almost instantly, which was always a blessing, and John and Sherlock currently found themselves back in the living room. There was a fire between them as they sat in their respective chairs. John was working on his blog and Sherlock was perusing the internet to look for their next case. Each man was sipping red wine and there was a comfortable silence in the room.

John was currently writing about one of their more recent cases. One which he had gleefully titled “Three Blind Mimes” much to Sherlock’s chagrin. He chuckled to himself as he recalled interviewing a woman with very improper grammar during the case. Sherlock couldn't help himself, of course, and kept interrupting her story to correct her. This certainly wasn’t the first time he had done this, and it wouldn’t be the last. Sherlock was Sherlock and he would correct everyone about everything. It was what made most people infuriated with him, John himself being guilty of that as well, but Sherlock couldn't help it. It was just part of who he was.

John was starting to feel pleasantly buzzed from just the one glass of wine. It didn’t take much these days. He decided he wanted to keep this pleasantness going for a bit longer so he set his laptop aside to get up and retrieve the bottle from the kitchen. He brought it back out to the living room and refilled his glass. Without asking, he moved to where Sherlock sat and topped off his glass as well. The detective was so engrossed in his laptop that he didn’t notice.

John smiled to himself as he stood next to his oblivious friend. His thoughts then returned to a moment ago.

“Sherlock?” John began.

“Hmmm?” he tore his eyes from his laptop screen to look up at his friend. Seeing him standing there holding a bottle of wine, he shook his head. “No, thank you, I’m good.”

John laughed. “Well, I already poured you some, but no. I was going to ask, why don’t you ever correct anyone when they assume you and I are together?”

“We are together,” he replied simply, still typing away at his laptop.

John stiffened a bit at that. “What?”

“You and me. We’re together a lot, John. Why would I correct someone who points out a fact?”

John rolled his eyes as he headed back toward the kitchen. “That’s not what I meant,” he called as he put the wine back on the counter.

When he turned around, Sherlock was standing in the doorway between the two rooms.

“What did you mean?”

Once John got over the surprise of how quickly and silently his friend could move, he levelled him with a serious look. “I think you know. I mean when people would assume you and I are together romantically. A couple. You never correct them when they assume that.”

“Is that a problem?” his eyebrows raised in a questioning way as he leaned against the door frame. 

“Well, no, not exactly. I was just thinking about it and it’s odd, isn’t it? Sherlock, you correct everyone about _everything_.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, fixing John with a serious gaze. “Even if I wanted to, you wouldn’t have given me a chance.”

His mouth gaped before he began to feel a bit defensive. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Now Sherlock rolled his eyes, pushing himself off the door frame as he stepped closer to his friend. “You were always so quick to deny it. People could barely finish their thought before you were announcing it wasn’t true.”

John held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Wait, why are you getting angry? It’s the truth. We weren’t a couple.”

“Weren’t?” Sherlock smirked.

“Aren’t. Dammit,” John sighed in frustration. “Aren’t a couple.”

“Perhaps I’m taking offense because, from my observations, you seemed ashamed at the mere thought that someone would assume we were together. Am I really that undesirable, John?”

“You can’t be serious.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Do you really not know? No, you must know. You are “the world's only consulting detective” after all,” he finished mockingly. 

“Maybe you should spell it out for me,” Sherlock bit back. “Yes, that should prove enjoyable. Let’s role play. I'll be you and you be me.”

“Oh that’s bloody rich,” John stopped himself and took a deep breath. His friend was purposefully trying to get a rise out of him. “You’re not going to do that Sherlock, not this time.” 

John looked down at his friend's shoes as he worked up the nerve to say what he wanted to next. As his eyes rose to meet the detective’s eyes, he took in everything about his friend along the way. His stylish trousers with the seam pressed just so, his navy blue shirt tucked into the waistline with precision. The impossibly tight shirt itself, showing off his friend’s physique in the absolute perfect way. The top two buttons of said shirt were left undone, giving him a glimpse of the pale expanse of his clavicle. And that face. That impossibly beautiful face. Full lips and dramatic cheekbones. Those piercing grey eyes that sometimes looked ice blue, absolutely brimming with intelligence. Then there was that head of dark, opulent curls. John knew somewhere inside that mates don’t think that way about each other. He’d told himself that very thing a thousand times during his friendship with the detective. But then, just like now, he made the excuse that this wasn’t just anyone. This was Sherlock. And who on this planet would not think this man was something special to look at? You’d have to be blind. 

“Okay fine,” John began, clearly uncomfortable but steeling himself. “Hypothetically speaking, if you and I were together…” 

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow in interest, encouraging his friend to go on. 

“Sherlock, you’ve got to know. You’re the most intelligent, witty and talented man I’ve ever met. Not to mention you have a great sense of style, you make me laugh like no one else can, and yes, you can and do drive me up the wall on occasion. But I wouldn’t give up our adventures together for anything in the world. And mate, between us, you’re ridiculously attractive. So, no. Of course I wouldn’t be ashamed.” 

John was breathing heavily as he finished his declaration. Slightly embarrassed and now feeling quite anxious as a prolonged silence spread between them.

Sherlock’s lips were pressed together, his hand fidgeting at his side as he considered all that his friend had just confessed.

“You’re right,” the detective began, taking a step closer. “I did already know all of that.”

John rolled his eyes. “Then why-”

“Just because I know doesn’t mean I don't like to have my findings confirmed once in a while.” 

Sherlock took another step toward his friend, quickly shrinking the distance between them. He was now very close, and John took a step back instinctively. His foot met the base of the kitchen counter, and his hands rested on top of it. He began leaning back as his friend loomed over him.

“W-what are you doing?” John stammered.

The doctor was very aware that his heart was now racing. They’d been in each other's personal space before but never quite like this. This had to be some sort of test of Sherlock's, but it felt too intimate, too real. Sherlock's sharp grey eyes never left John's, and the doctor felt his gaze unable to look away as his friend studied him. He felt as though he were cemented in place, and he swallowed nervously as the detective leaned even closer. They were still not touching, somehow, but there was an electricity, a heat between them, and John knew it couldn't just be him that felt it. 

Without moving away, but also not moving closer, Sherlock reached out and grabbed John's wrist.

“I’m testing my hypothesis,” the taller man finally responded.

The heat of his friend's touch coupled with his breath ghosting over John’s lips as he spoke made the doctor emit a soft groan, deep from within his chest and barely audible.

Sherlocks pupils dilated at the sound, and the detective's gaze finally moved away from John's eyes down to his lips. John’s ears began ringing and his vision began to blur as his friend inched ever closer, their mouths mere millimeters apart.

It was at that exact moment that baby Rosie decided to start crying in the other room, startling both men out of their haze.

“Rosie,” John managed to get out, his tongue feeling like it weighed one hundred pounds.

Sherlock nodded and stepped back, giving John room to leave and go tend to his daughter.

John felt like his entire body had been set ablaze. He was still breathing heavily from the intense encounter as he made his way to his daughter’s crib. He scooped up Rosie and began rocking her gently, trying his best to soothe her. He couldn’t stop thinking about what had almost just happened down there. He could no longer deny how he felt about his friend. He wanted Sherlock to kiss him then, wanted it with every fiber of his being. But what was Sherlock playing at? Was he going to go through with it and actually kiss him? Or was this some sort of messed up psychological experiment? John shook his head at that thought. Sherlock had emotionally matured over the years enough to know that you don’t play your friends that way. Hadn’t he? One thing was certain, John needed to talk to him about this.

Rosie had fallen back asleep and, as he laid her back into her crib, he heard Sherlock’s bedroom door close. 

Still wanting to talk this through, he made his way to his friend’s door and knocked lightly.

“I’m turning in early,” he heard the detective call from inside. “Goodnight, John.”

“Right, umm, okay. Goodnight,” he replied, doing his best to keep the disappointment he felt out of his voice.

What he really wanted to do was open the door anyway, march inside and demand that they talk about what happened. But something told him to leave it alone tonight, give his friend the space he clearly wanted.

John had never felt more awake in his life considering the events of the evening, so he decided to head back to his chair and finish his wine. He ended up working on his blog until about midnight when he decided to make his way to bed. He hoped he could actually get some sleep without the warm presence of his best friend to comfort him.

The next morning, Sherlock had already been gone by the time John woke. This wasn’t unusual behaviour for the detective, far from, but it had become less and less frequent over the last couple months. Especially without leaving John any sort of a note or a text. 

John sent a simple text to his friend: “You okay?” and tried his best not to worry as he continued about his morning.

About an hour later he heard his phone chime. Picking it up with the hand that wasn’t holding Rosie, he looked at the simple reply.

_Yes. -SH_

He breathed a sigh of relief.

Another chime came a moment later.

_Be back this evening. -SH_

John tried to push the fear that his best friend was avoiding him out of his mind as he went about his day.

That distress grew larger in his mind, however, as the evening grew into night. He had put Rosie to bed hours ago, and still no sign of his friend. He was trying to distract himself with his blog, but he had been staring at the same paragraph for what seemed like hours. He was getting just worried enough to send another text when he heard those familiar footsteps coming up the stairs.

He looked to the open doorway to see his friend swoop in, nodding his head toward John in greeting.

“Hey there,” John began softly. “You’re back later than you said. Is everything okay?”

“Yes, sorry,” he replied simply.

John waited for his friend to elaborate as he took off his coat and scarf and hung them up. When it was clear that wasn’t going to happen, he spoke again.

“You’re not going to tell me what you were up to for the past,” John paused to look at this watch, “Thirteen _hours_.”

“It was for a case,” he insisted before sighing and adding, “but to be honest I also just needed to think.”

“About what happened last night?”

Sherlock bit his lip thoughtfully before giving a tight nod.

“Don't you think we should talk about it?” 

He gave John a searching look before heading into the kitchen.

“No need, I have analyzed the data and drawn my conclusion,” the detective replied coolly.

John bristled as he followed his friend into the other room. “What data? What conclusion?”

Sherlock sighed in frustration. “You. Last night. Your pupils were dilated and your heart rate was elevated. I took your pulse, remember? I have all the evidence I need.”

John now felt flustered and defensive. “Evidence? I’m not some bloody science project!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “So you’ve mentioned.”

The doctor gaped at his friend. “What do you want? What do you plan to do with this ‘evidence’? Damnit, Sherlock! Are you doing this just to embarrass me? Am I a joke to you?!” John finished, looking hurt.

“Of course not! I’m waiting for you to catch up!” Sherlock shouted, slicing his hand through the air to accentuate his point. As he did so, however, he accidentally knocked over a rather large piece of scientific glassware on the kitchen table, shattering it. 

Deafening silence covered the flat for a moment before Sherlock then raised his hand to find that he was definitely bleeding.

John swore under his breath. Ever the prepared doctor, he moved quickly to the bottom right cabinet and retrieved his first aid kit.

“It’s really nothing,” Sherlock began as he cradled his hand to his body. “No need to make a fuss.”

John stiffened as he raised his eyes to glare at his friend.

“Sherlock Holmes, you will stop your one and _only_ attempt to resist my help and allow me to examine you, _now_.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide. He visibly swallowed at the command in John’s voice before nodding slowly in agreeance.

“Good. Now, let me see,” John coaxed. 

The doctor took Sherlock’s hand into his own and the detective inhaled sharply as his wound was prodded.

“Sorry,” John said earnestly in response. “You’re lucky,” he continued softly. “You just missed the radial artery in your wrist. But it’s still bleeding a lot. I’m going to wrap it up tight and keep putting pressure on it.”

“Thank you,” was all Sherlock could manage at the moment. 

“You’ve also got a few small cuts on your hand. I’ll tend to those once I wrap up your wrist.”

Sherlock winced as John tightly wrapped his wrist. The doctor apologized again, explaining it had to be tight or the wound wouldn’t clot. Sherlock stopped himself from saying “obvious” out loud, surprising himself with his restraint. Instead he opted to stand quietly and observe his friend as he mended his wounds. John was showing an incredible amount of care, not that the detective was surprised by that. The doctor finished wrapping his wrist and moved onto the smaller cuts on his hand. John rested Sherlock’s hand palm side up in his own hand before providing the ministrations. He used a warm moist cloth to clean the blood off of his palm and then began applying antibiotic ointment to the wounds. Sherlock had to stifle the little noises of pleasure that threatened to spill out of him at the tender touches of his friend. The doctor was gently applying the balm with his fingertips, and Sherlock had never realized how sensitive the skin of his palm was before. He then noticed the ever-so-familiar-when-it-came-to-John feeling of warmth was spreading through his body.

John was beginning to get lost in the moment, touching his friend more than what was necessary. He had applied enough ointment, but couldn’t stop himself from tracing comforting circles on his friend’s open hand.

“John?” 

The doctor started a bit, Sherlock’s voice taking him out of whatever trance he had just been in. But there was something else startling about the detective. His voice sounded rough, even deeper than usual, and when John looked up and finally met his eyes, he couldn’t help but be taken aback by what he saw there.

Sherlock looked like he was in pain.

“We can’t go on like this,” the detective almost whispered.

John swallowed nervously. “Wha-what do you mean?” He felt dumb, caught up in the intensity of his friend’s gaze and their close proximity to one another.

Sherlock let out a breath before taking John’s hand and laying it on his chest, above his heart.

John’s eyes widened at the gesture and then he sharply sucked in a breath at what he felt beneath his palm. His friend’s chest, warm and solid, and beneath it, a heart that was positively hammering against the confines of his ribcage.

“Evidence,” Sherlock began with a small rueful smile, “evidence that it’s not just you.”

John stood there, eyes wide with realization before looking back down and staring at the spot where his hand covered Sherlock’s heart. He began to feel tears brimming despite his best efforts. He laughed a little, shaking his head at how blind he must have been.

“When you said you were waiting for me to catch up, I didn’t think- you didn’t seem interested in that sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?”

John met Sherlock’s gaze. “Love.”

“I wasn’t. Not at first. But I was always interested in you.”

John could see that his friend’s eyes were also becoming glassy with emotion, and he shook his head again at himself and his own stupidity.

“All those girlfriends I would bring around, and then Mary-” he paused, his voice catching with emotion. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

A small, sad smile. “You weren’t gay, remember?”

He let out a little laugh. “Right. I sure seemed to have myself convinced.” He paused for a moment, letting himself focus on the steady thudding of his friend’s heart beneath his palm. “I think I knew, even then, that I cared about you more than just as a friend. I just couldn't let myself believe it.”

“I’m told I was a more difficult person to be around back then,” Sherlock offered with a smirk.

John smiled. “Yes, you have mellowed a bit over the years.”

Sherlock laughed at that. His expression then softened as he lifted his free hand and touched the side of John’s face. “As mad as it sounds, I think we had to go through all of that horror to end up here. I would have still had to make that jump and Mary, well... Mary truly was there for you and loved you and helped get you through it. Everything that happened after that was rather out of our control.”

John nodded, leaning into his friend’s hand. The two stood there in silence for a moment, touching each other, enjoying the closeness of one another.

John took a deep breath. 

“Everything you’ve done for me, and now for Rosie... I want you to know how much I appreciate it. For giving my life meaning again the day we met, for coming back to me after Mary shot you, for Magnussen and for Eurus. Sherlock, you mean everything to me. I need you to hear me. I love you.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, letting the words wash over him and allowing himself to absorb every detail.

Before John could process all that was happening, his friend placed both of his hands on the side of his face. Sherlock’s thumbs caressed his jawline and his long digits gently wrapped around the back of his neck. John let himself be pulled closer and felt his body ignite. When their faces were only an inch apart, Sherlock paused and looked into John’s eyes.

“Is this okay?” he whispered.

John nodded.

“I love you, too,” Sherlock breathed.

John responded by closing the gap between them, Sherlock’s full lips slotting into place oh-so-perfectly over his.

The pair sighed, their bodies melting as they finally gave in to what they had so long been denying themselves.

John’s hands came up, lightly tracing over the material on Sherlock's back before laying them flat on his shoulder blades and pulling his friend closer.

The detective groaned at the sensations, and the sound sent a wave of pleasure through John’s already tingly and warm body. 

Their kissing amplified, mouths moving together so satisfyingly that John would have chastised himself for not doing this sooner if his brain wasn’t so wrapped up in the sensations of finally being _here_. He lifted a hand and gently carded it through Sherlock's curls. The detective practically whimpered in response, and John smiled against his lips. He was thrilled to find he could elicit these types of responses from his friend. The thought of what other types of noises Sherlock might make sent a chill up John's spine.

The intensity of all of this was already becoming overwhelming, and he pulled away to look his best friend in the eyes. He was glad to see that Sherlock appeared to be in a similar state as to how he was currently feeling. His pupils were wide and his lips swollen, a slight tremor to his breathing. It matched the way John could feel his own body trembling, and he pulled his friend in closely for a hug. He wrapped his arms fully around Sherlock’s back, his head fitting snugly beneath the taller man’s chin. Sherlock quickly reciprocated the gesture, his hands leaving John’s neck and letting his arms wrap tightly around his upper back. The two stood there, breathing heavily together and feeling each other's heartbeat against his own.

“People will talk,” Sherlock smiled, repeating John’s words of what felt like a lifetime ago.

John smiled back.

“People do little else.”


End file.
